Today I came back to an old toothbrush, let’s call him Gary (that’s not gay, is it?). It’s strange that we don’t form a deeper bond with our toothbrushes, as they spend their active time in the most intimate areas of our mouths, reaching and kissing cavities even our tongues cannot contact.
Gary was showing his age. I’ve been using newer models in other houses: ones where the bristles are strong and unforgiving, sharp and penetrating. Guaranteed to make your gums bleed like crying children.
But Gary has as much cleaning power as filling your face with rice pudding. It feels like a wet J-cloth gliding through my mouth, not so much cleaning my teeth as making love to them. I guess that would make the foaming paste the jizz, which appears in such horrific quantities, my teeth must be very satisfied.
Sometimes I like to pretend that the foam isn’t toothpaste at all, but instead the froth of rabies. I take great pleasure in watching it spill over my chin into the sink, like the flow of lava from a volcano; unstoppable and prodigious. Sometimes I spit and cough, spluttering violently and dramatically, swinging from the taps. If I’m feeling energetic I might gnash my teeth and stalk the house for victims, eliciting the terrified responses, “I just cleaned this shirt!”
Saturday 31 January 2009
Wednesday 28 January 2009
Hard of Hearing
I was shaving recently when I realised that I can hear better in my left ear than I can in my right. The buzzing seemed louder and more threatening in my left ear, like a chainsaw approaching from behind, whereas my right ear barely registered the threat in those whirring blades, instead recognising it as the deranged hum of a Buddhist in prayer.
How did this happen? Had I inadvertently exposed my right ear to more loud noises than my left? I remembered something about ears and balance, so I developed a limp that suggested my equilibrium was distorted. People thought I was drunk. If only they knew the burden I bore. Then I remembered that deaf people never seem to have difficulty walking, and it turns out your balance is only effected if you perforate an eardrum or wear a heavy coat. I went back to walking normally.
How did this happen? Had I inadvertently exposed my right ear to more loud noises than my left? I remembered something about ears and balance, so I developed a limp that suggested my equilibrium was distorted. People thought I was drunk. If only they knew the burden I bore. Then I remembered that deaf people never seem to have difficulty walking, and it turns out your balance is only effected if you perforate an eardrum or wear a heavy coat. I went back to walking normally.
Monday 26 January 2009
Ugly Nuggets
In the beginning of a relationship, there are certain benchmarks that are crossed. Those memorable moments: the first kiss, the first fuck, the first hug. Sometimes in that order. But these are often clustered together, and depending on how much of a slag you are, may all occur within six hours of meeting that person. What I want to discuss today are those true benchmarks further along the road, those moments which a relationship can hinge on, and if judged too early may close the door on the relationship altogether.
I’m speaking of course of habits. Those dirty, secret habits which only your nearest and dearest are witness to, whether they like it or not. We’ll start with something relatively inoffensive. It’s the start of your day, and if you’re considerate to your digestive system, you began it with Bran Flakes, hmm, the cereal you don’t need any taste buds to enjoy. But your breakfast isn’t finished yet, not truly, there’s still a pool of milk leftover. Wasting is out of the question, but you’re remembering how your partner is the sort of person who cringes when you suggest sharing a toothbrush.
This is a different boundary of course, it’s not as if you’re asking them if they want to finish it off. So you wait till they’re distracted, and bring the bowl swiftly to your lips. Not too fast though, or you’ll have a beard full of cascading milk, making a spectacle of the whole thing. Perhaps this isn’t such a bad way of introducing it, ‘look at me, I’ve made a disgusting yet humorous mess of myself, it’s all so hilariously endearing, ha ha ha.’ Only problem is, that joke gets old quick, and soon they’re going to begin thinking, maybe it wasn’t a joke after all, maybe this is actually how he finishes his breakfast everyday. You see them playing it over in their mind, the endless replays of your face being doused in milk and residual flakes; the mouth half open, and the sinister ghost of a laugh projected from the back of the throat, like some puppet fortune teller at a fairground.
So take it easy. If you feel that the relationship isn’t going anywhere, then this is a good short-term solution. However, if you’re in for the long run, there is going to come a time when she stops becoming distracted by the imaginary things you point at, and turns to look at you as you’re tipping that bowl to your lips. It’s one of those classic hand-in-the-cookie-jar (or biscuit tin, if you’re from this side of the Atlantic) moments, which are best dealt with by pretending everything is normal. Don’t freeze guiltily, or say “Uh oh”. If you’re feeling cocky, meet her eyes and stare her down, make her feel ashamed for looking at you in your moment of weakness, and perhaps even lick your lips, so that she knows you’re ready for intercourse.
If you pass this moment with little incident, then perhaps your partner might be ready for you to unleash your next ugly. However, give it some time, you don’t want to cluster these things, otherwise the force of it might act as a sort of domestic Ragnarök.
Dinnertime is over, or so you’re partner thought. You enjoyed a delicious chicken lasagne, and you just can’t seem to get enough of that cheesy sauce. Now try to assess the relationship, do they love you? Are they charmed when you drink the orange juice straight from the carton, and can see the logic that it saves on washing up? If so, then the meal has only just begun. Now lick the plate. Show them what the strongest muscle in the body was designed for. A rule of thumb though, this only applies whilst the plate is still on the table. You don’t want to get caught half an hour later in the kitchen trying to make the most of dried pasta. With this in mind, if your plate is removed, your partner has spoken and mealtime is over. These things can turn ugly, so steer clear of the tug of war situation.
Overall, I’ve found licking the plate produces a variety of reactions. For some people, this is relationship-ending stuff, and so is a good weapon to bear in mind if you feel you’re in a Shawshank circumstance. Other people will merely shudder, and try and remember why they love you. The boat has been rocked, but hasn’t sunk yet. Try to balance this out and buy them a DVD or something. Think more Mamma Mia! and less Schlinder’s List. In this case, it’s probably best to wait a few years before you begin licking their plate.
If you’re really lucky, your partner will see the joys to be had in licking the plate and they too will join you in finishing their meal. Times like these are emotional; so don’t be surprised if you see tears of revelation as they begin to realise the revolutionary repasts that await them.
More on this later. Subscribe for the updates.
I’m speaking of course of habits. Those dirty, secret habits which only your nearest and dearest are witness to, whether they like it or not. We’ll start with something relatively inoffensive. It’s the start of your day, and if you’re considerate to your digestive system, you began it with Bran Flakes, hmm, the cereal you don’t need any taste buds to enjoy. But your breakfast isn’t finished yet, not truly, there’s still a pool of milk leftover. Wasting is out of the question, but you’re remembering how your partner is the sort of person who cringes when you suggest sharing a toothbrush.
This is a different boundary of course, it’s not as if you’re asking them if they want to finish it off. So you wait till they’re distracted, and bring the bowl swiftly to your lips. Not too fast though, or you’ll have a beard full of cascading milk, making a spectacle of the whole thing. Perhaps this isn’t such a bad way of introducing it, ‘look at me, I’ve made a disgusting yet humorous mess of myself, it’s all so hilariously endearing, ha ha ha.’ Only problem is, that joke gets old quick, and soon they’re going to begin thinking, maybe it wasn’t a joke after all, maybe this is actually how he finishes his breakfast everyday. You see them playing it over in their mind, the endless replays of your face being doused in milk and residual flakes; the mouth half open, and the sinister ghost of a laugh projected from the back of the throat, like some puppet fortune teller at a fairground.
So take it easy. If you feel that the relationship isn’t going anywhere, then this is a good short-term solution. However, if you’re in for the long run, there is going to come a time when she stops becoming distracted by the imaginary things you point at, and turns to look at you as you’re tipping that bowl to your lips. It’s one of those classic hand-in-the-cookie-jar (or biscuit tin, if you’re from this side of the Atlantic) moments, which are best dealt with by pretending everything is normal. Don’t freeze guiltily, or say “Uh oh”. If you’re feeling cocky, meet her eyes and stare her down, make her feel ashamed for looking at you in your moment of weakness, and perhaps even lick your lips, so that she knows you’re ready for intercourse.
If you pass this moment with little incident, then perhaps your partner might be ready for you to unleash your next ugly. However, give it some time, you don’t want to cluster these things, otherwise the force of it might act as a sort of domestic Ragnarök.
Dinnertime is over, or so you’re partner thought. You enjoyed a delicious chicken lasagne, and you just can’t seem to get enough of that cheesy sauce. Now try to assess the relationship, do they love you? Are they charmed when you drink the orange juice straight from the carton, and can see the logic that it saves on washing up? If so, then the meal has only just begun. Now lick the plate. Show them what the strongest muscle in the body was designed for. A rule of thumb though, this only applies whilst the plate is still on the table. You don’t want to get caught half an hour later in the kitchen trying to make the most of dried pasta. With this in mind, if your plate is removed, your partner has spoken and mealtime is over. These things can turn ugly, so steer clear of the tug of war situation.
Overall, I’ve found licking the plate produces a variety of reactions. For some people, this is relationship-ending stuff, and so is a good weapon to bear in mind if you feel you’re in a Shawshank circumstance. Other people will merely shudder, and try and remember why they love you. The boat has been rocked, but hasn’t sunk yet. Try to balance this out and buy them a DVD or something. Think more Mamma Mia! and less Schlinder’s List. In this case, it’s probably best to wait a few years before you begin licking their plate.
If you’re really lucky, your partner will see the joys to be had in licking the plate and they too will join you in finishing their meal. Times like these are emotional; so don’t be surprised if you see tears of revelation as they begin to realise the revolutionary repasts that await them.
More on this later. Subscribe for the updates.
Friday 23 January 2009
Rule Breaker
The other day, after rising, I came downstairs to a row of letters addressed to each member of our household. This was not a good sign. Official looking letters always instil a certain anxiety in me, I find they always tend to say, ‘You owe X amount of money’ or ‘You have failed to return The Breakfast Club for over two years now, are you taking the piss? You now owe £600’ or worse still ‘Hallo English pen pal, when you come to visit? It has been 18 months now, and still you have not replied.
P.S. please sends 250 of your English pounds immediately or our protection racket will kill us.
P.P.S. sorry for using scary and official looking envelope.’
In this instance my trepidation was compounded by a hand-written post-it note from my housemate, Hannah, which said she had gone to see our estate agent. This was serious. I decided not to open my letter; otherwise I might not be able to eat my breakfast.
A few minutes afterwards, Hannah came home looking a little flustered. “Did you read the letter?” she said in a, ‘do you have any idea of the kind of shit we’re in’ sort of way.
“No,” I said, my lips quivering. I opened my letter nervously. It was from the council, and it said I had not paid my Council Tax. It then said in bold capitals, ‘YOU ARE THEREFORE SUMMONED TO APPEAR BEFORE THE MAGISTRATES SITTING AT NORTH PARADE ROAD, BATH AT 11.00AM ON Thursday, 12th February 2009.' That’s a bit overkill, isn’t it? Bold and capitals? It was as if they were taking a disturbing amount of pleasure in my worry, and the only thing they could think of was how to maximise the damage. They stopped short at an army Sergeant delivering a telegram – that was too expensive – so they settled on large, black shouty words. Did they expect me to read it louder, give myself a hard going over?
If you’re interested the due amount was £889.77. Hannah said we needed to phone the council, and explain that we’re students so didn’t have to pay the obscene amount, and that we may need to provide evidence. It all sounded like a lot of bother.
After 20 minutes on hold, she explained the situation, and the council man asked what uni we went to, and she told him, and so he consulted his list of students, and yep, we were on there, so we in fact didn’t owe any money. Now where the fuck was this list when they sent out their ‘You’re going to court you criminal’ letters? He seemed to resolve the situation so easily and quickly that I presume it was laid beside him next to his worn issue of that week’s Heat magazine and an untouched copy of How to do Your Fucking Job Properly: For Fucking Morons.
Why is it that those in power always go straight for these scare mongering tactics, as if you had personally punched their mum in the face, when they haven’t even bothered to check their facts before sending out their death threats? I got the same thing from TV Licensing. A few months after having bought a license I received a letter stating that they knew I had a TV and no license and they were going to be paying me an unfriendly visit soon. They told me to feel guilty, ashamed even. They said live on the edge of your seat, jump at every ring of the bell and knock at the door. They said my heartbeat will never go below 80bpm, that I will develop high blood pressure, and suffer annoying headaches. I will become addicted to aspirin, and subsequently heroin. We’ve seen this before, they said, a million times before, and the only way I’ll be able to pay for my addiction is by performing lewd sex acts on foreign businessmen, stingy businessmen with smelly cocks and pubic wigs. ‘Oh, Doris!’ they’ll whisper as they pull my hair and reach climax. They said I will spend entire days watching the same episode of Deal or No Deal but not noticing because I am distracted by every van that goes past the window. They said they would wait for that one moment when I let my guard down: buttering my toast, only to drop the jar of strawberry jam as they forced entry through my upstairs window. Broken glass and jam everywhere – what is blood and what is jam? The chaos! THE CHAOS!
These people are sick.
P.S. please sends 250 of your English pounds immediately or our protection racket will kill us.
P.P.S. sorry for using scary and official looking envelope.’
In this instance my trepidation was compounded by a hand-written post-it note from my housemate, Hannah, which said she had gone to see our estate agent. This was serious. I decided not to open my letter; otherwise I might not be able to eat my breakfast.
A few minutes afterwards, Hannah came home looking a little flustered. “Did you read the letter?” she said in a, ‘do you have any idea of the kind of shit we’re in’ sort of way.
“No,” I said, my lips quivering. I opened my letter nervously. It was from the council, and it said I had not paid my Council Tax. It then said in bold capitals, ‘YOU ARE THEREFORE SUMMONED TO APPEAR BEFORE THE MAGISTRATES SITTING AT NORTH PARADE ROAD, BATH AT 11.00AM ON Thursday, 12th February 2009.' That’s a bit overkill, isn’t it? Bold and capitals? It was as if they were taking a disturbing amount of pleasure in my worry, and the only thing they could think of was how to maximise the damage. They stopped short at an army Sergeant delivering a telegram – that was too expensive – so they settled on large, black shouty words. Did they expect me to read it louder, give myself a hard going over?
If you’re interested the due amount was £889.77. Hannah said we needed to phone the council, and explain that we’re students so didn’t have to pay the obscene amount, and that we may need to provide evidence. It all sounded like a lot of bother.
After 20 minutes on hold, she explained the situation, and the council man asked what uni we went to, and she told him, and so he consulted his list of students, and yep, we were on there, so we in fact didn’t owe any money. Now where the fuck was this list when they sent out their ‘You’re going to court you criminal’ letters? He seemed to resolve the situation so easily and quickly that I presume it was laid beside him next to his worn issue of that week’s Heat magazine and an untouched copy of How to do Your Fucking Job Properly: For Fucking Morons.
Why is it that those in power always go straight for these scare mongering tactics, as if you had personally punched their mum in the face, when they haven’t even bothered to check their facts before sending out their death threats? I got the same thing from TV Licensing. A few months after having bought a license I received a letter stating that they knew I had a TV and no license and they were going to be paying me an unfriendly visit soon. They told me to feel guilty, ashamed even. They said live on the edge of your seat, jump at every ring of the bell and knock at the door. They said my heartbeat will never go below 80bpm, that I will develop high blood pressure, and suffer annoying headaches. I will become addicted to aspirin, and subsequently heroin. We’ve seen this before, they said, a million times before, and the only way I’ll be able to pay for my addiction is by performing lewd sex acts on foreign businessmen, stingy businessmen with smelly cocks and pubic wigs. ‘Oh, Doris!’ they’ll whisper as they pull my hair and reach climax. They said I will spend entire days watching the same episode of Deal or No Deal but not noticing because I am distracted by every van that goes past the window. They said they would wait for that one moment when I let my guard down: buttering my toast, only to drop the jar of strawberry jam as they forced entry through my upstairs window. Broken glass and jam everywhere – what is blood and what is jam? The chaos! THE CHAOS!
These people are sick.
Wednesday 21 January 2009
Ooh - Aah!
For a small city, Bath has an inordinate amount of homeless people. Coming from Southampton, a larger city, this surprised me. I was used to the occasional sightings, usually in the form of a furtive hand protruding from a sleeping bag. There was something bashful about them; they were all so ashamed that you were aware of them, and so apologetic in their whispered pleas, “big issue…big issue.”
If the Southampton bum is the silent voyeur, then the Bath bum is the clown, demanding your attention. They have a way of making their presence known; you’ll be walking through the Sainsbury’s car park when through the hedge you hear them roar like pirates, “Argh!” and then amble into view, leaning heavily on each other. In no other city have I seen homeless friends before, bound together by circumstance, or some common interest to be loud and drunk.
There’s a sort of locked-in-time quality to Bath’s bums. I think it’s their West Country accents. It reminds me of the food stall owners you hear in medieval films, “Get your apples!” Except they’re probably not saying ‘apples’, they’re saying ‘Shit!’ and they’re not so much selling them, as they are throwing them.
Bath Bums are also the most jolly of bums; their reckless smiles seem to mock the taxpayers, the family unit, the uniformed hoi polloi. They seem to be energised by their sense of freedom, their devil may care way of life. There’s something Zen about their directionless existence; the lack of ties to a place and family, their forced liberation from materialism.
That being said, I have noticed certain homeless hotspots. Places where they accumulate and gather. I don’t know how they decide on these places. One in particular is a series of benches which overlook a grotty stream peppered with sewage. The place offers no shelter and could best be described as ugly and depressing. Do they feel some sort of affinity with this area? Do they see something of themselves in those dirty depths? What do they think when they see their murky reflections, besides, “I could do with brushing my teeth”?
What is it that keeps drawing them back to this place? Does it have mystical and sacrosanct qualities? If they dip a bird bath into it, and retrieve the soiled water, does it act as a sort of Mirror of Galadriel, a Mirror of Gazza, from which visions are played, and once they return to consciousness, words of an elusive meaning burn brightly in their mind, “Special Brew – £5.99 –Tesco”?
I often wonder when watching them, staring into those depths, do they feel some sort of kinship with the water? I imagine they think, if all water ends up in the sea, and all old people end up in Bournemouth, where do we homeless end up?
If the Southampton bum is the silent voyeur, then the Bath bum is the clown, demanding your attention. They have a way of making their presence known; you’ll be walking through the Sainsbury’s car park when through the hedge you hear them roar like pirates, “Argh!” and then amble into view, leaning heavily on each other. In no other city have I seen homeless friends before, bound together by circumstance, or some common interest to be loud and drunk.
There’s a sort of locked-in-time quality to Bath’s bums. I think it’s their West Country accents. It reminds me of the food stall owners you hear in medieval films, “Get your apples!” Except they’re probably not saying ‘apples’, they’re saying ‘Shit!’ and they’re not so much selling them, as they are throwing them.
Bath Bums are also the most jolly of bums; their reckless smiles seem to mock the taxpayers, the family unit, the uniformed hoi polloi. They seem to be energised by their sense of freedom, their devil may care way of life. There’s something Zen about their directionless existence; the lack of ties to a place and family, their forced liberation from materialism.
That being said, I have noticed certain homeless hotspots. Places where they accumulate and gather. I don’t know how they decide on these places. One in particular is a series of benches which overlook a grotty stream peppered with sewage. The place offers no shelter and could best be described as ugly and depressing. Do they feel some sort of affinity with this area? Do they see something of themselves in those dirty depths? What do they think when they see their murky reflections, besides, “I could do with brushing my teeth”?
What is it that keeps drawing them back to this place? Does it have mystical and sacrosanct qualities? If they dip a bird bath into it, and retrieve the soiled water, does it act as a sort of Mirror of Galadriel, a Mirror of Gazza, from which visions are played, and once they return to consciousness, words of an elusive meaning burn brightly in their mind, “Special Brew – £5.99 –Tesco”?
I often wonder when watching them, staring into those depths, do they feel some sort of kinship with the water? I imagine they think, if all water ends up in the sea, and all old people end up in Bournemouth, where do we homeless end up?
Saturday 17 January 2009
You Know You're 21
I recently had a check up with a doctor, no real issue, nothing scary. Except it wasn’t Dr Fitzpatrick, my childhood doctor, who had seen me through chicken pox, gastric enteritis and man flu. The bastard was taking a break in the Bahamas. Not that this bothered me at the time. I was being foisted onto Dr Ward, a Lady Doctor. This didn’t seem like a problem; It’s not as if I had misread the dose for viagra and was now sporting an angry pocket snake, and neither had I ‘accidentally’ plugged my rear end with a rubber bath duck, or any similarly embarrassing incident.
A lady doctor? Of course I’ll see her. As it happened, Dr Ward was an attractive, soft-spoken woman. She went through the routine professionally, and I’d like to think, with some enjoyment. You see, I thought I spotted a glint in her eye that suggested she liked what she saw. Of course I wasn’t going to try anything, I’ve spoken before about my ineptitude with women. I’m like a charmingly bumbling Hugh Grant, but without the charm. I felt safe in the knowledge that nothing could happen between us. I’m a young man and she an older woman, but I took pleasure in imagining a mutual admiration for one another. I felt my heart race as she held my arm firmly and took my pulse. “A little irregular,” she remarked, with a secret smile, as if she was all too aware of the source of its excitement. Fuck me, I thought, mentally willing her to straddle me. I became worried that a telling tent might form, but pocket snake remained calm and philosophical on the whole matter.
“Ok, if you’d like to take your top off…” I did as I was told, hoping she’d follow it up with “And now you’re trousers…and now you’re pants…and now – no, leave the socks on.” Enjoy, I thought, trying not to make it obvious that I was flexing. I searched her face, trying to distinguish any signs of the moral turmoil that she faced within – Surely I couldn’t, not here. It would be so unprofessional!
I almost thought I saw something; a slight blush, a parting of the lips, the involuntary dilation of the eyes. Yes! I thought, Yes, take me now! To hell with the consequences! To hell with your house-husband and his collection of WWII model planes, to hell with shepherd’s pie! And just as suddenly as it appeared, it was gone. So quick you could have missed it. So quick you doubted it was there at all. Oh, but it was there all right. However fleeting. Only now her pupils had narrowed to cat’s eyes. Her mouth; wired shut, and her complexion was pale; sickly, even.
She then moved swiftly behind me, and began tapping at various points on my back. Her hands now felt cold, and ‘knuckly’. My body responded in turn and began to goosepimple. My nipples hardening into corners. It seemed only moments before that her hands were warm, and radiated with a sensual healing. Where once she treated me in a gentle but professional manner, her approach was now rough and impatient. I felt like Oliver Twist being checked over by a Victorian nun. I felt the shame of my desire, and the desire itself diminishing.
The sexual tension that couldn’t have been cut with a knife could now be swiped by a baguette. What had happened? What had changed? I tried to play over in my mind the exact point at which the alluring smile malformed into a disdainful lip curl. Playing it back again and again like an obsessed detective whose been let off the force because the case is getting in the way of his life. There! What was that? Johnson, get over here! It looks like we got our man. And there it was: the eyes, spotting something. Something they didn’t like, about the level of my midriff, and the rest of her face reacting, closing off.
I looked down to see what could have been so offensive, so pivotal to the affections of a trained doctor. A person who’s familiar with some of the most grotesque and sickening ailments of the human condition. What I saw shook me to the core: a spec of fluff, collected in the recess of my bellybutton. Ok, it was more like a wad, but I was confused. How could this have accumulated here? I had showered that morning. What distressed me even more was the colour. Blue! How was this possible? I don’t own any clothes that are blue, and nor had I given a naked-belly-hug to a pile of blue linen.
Not a day before my 21st had I ever experienced this phenomenon. Now each day begins with an apprehensive rummage that has become as routine as brushing my teeth. Are adult bellybuttons adhesive? Or does some sort of cotton bee try to pollinate it overnight, its mature form resembling a fleshy flower?
A lady doctor? Of course I’ll see her. As it happened, Dr Ward was an attractive, soft-spoken woman. She went through the routine professionally, and I’d like to think, with some enjoyment. You see, I thought I spotted a glint in her eye that suggested she liked what she saw. Of course I wasn’t going to try anything, I’ve spoken before about my ineptitude with women. I’m like a charmingly bumbling Hugh Grant, but without the charm. I felt safe in the knowledge that nothing could happen between us. I’m a young man and she an older woman, but I took pleasure in imagining a mutual admiration for one another. I felt my heart race as she held my arm firmly and took my pulse. “A little irregular,” she remarked, with a secret smile, as if she was all too aware of the source of its excitement. Fuck me, I thought, mentally willing her to straddle me. I became worried that a telling tent might form, but pocket snake remained calm and philosophical on the whole matter.
“Ok, if you’d like to take your top off…” I did as I was told, hoping she’d follow it up with “And now you’re trousers…and now you’re pants…and now – no, leave the socks on.” Enjoy, I thought, trying not to make it obvious that I was flexing. I searched her face, trying to distinguish any signs of the moral turmoil that she faced within – Surely I couldn’t, not here. It would be so unprofessional!
I almost thought I saw something; a slight blush, a parting of the lips, the involuntary dilation of the eyes. Yes! I thought, Yes, take me now! To hell with the consequences! To hell with your house-husband and his collection of WWII model planes, to hell with shepherd’s pie! And just as suddenly as it appeared, it was gone. So quick you could have missed it. So quick you doubted it was there at all. Oh, but it was there all right. However fleeting. Only now her pupils had narrowed to cat’s eyes. Her mouth; wired shut, and her complexion was pale; sickly, even.
She then moved swiftly behind me, and began tapping at various points on my back. Her hands now felt cold, and ‘knuckly’. My body responded in turn and began to goosepimple. My nipples hardening into corners. It seemed only moments before that her hands were warm, and radiated with a sensual healing. Where once she treated me in a gentle but professional manner, her approach was now rough and impatient. I felt like Oliver Twist being checked over by a Victorian nun. I felt the shame of my desire, and the desire itself diminishing.
The sexual tension that couldn’t have been cut with a knife could now be swiped by a baguette. What had happened? What had changed? I tried to play over in my mind the exact point at which the alluring smile malformed into a disdainful lip curl. Playing it back again and again like an obsessed detective whose been let off the force because the case is getting in the way of his life. There! What was that? Johnson, get over here! It looks like we got our man. And there it was: the eyes, spotting something. Something they didn’t like, about the level of my midriff, and the rest of her face reacting, closing off.
I looked down to see what could have been so offensive, so pivotal to the affections of a trained doctor. A person who’s familiar with some of the most grotesque and sickening ailments of the human condition. What I saw shook me to the core: a spec of fluff, collected in the recess of my bellybutton. Ok, it was more like a wad, but I was confused. How could this have accumulated here? I had showered that morning. What distressed me even more was the colour. Blue! How was this possible? I don’t own any clothes that are blue, and nor had I given a naked-belly-hug to a pile of blue linen.
Not a day before my 21st had I ever experienced this phenomenon. Now each day begins with an apprehensive rummage that has become as routine as brushing my teeth. Are adult bellybuttons adhesive? Or does some sort of cotton bee try to pollinate it overnight, its mature form resembling a fleshy flower?
Wednesday 14 January 2009
I'm not a rapist
Since becoming a student I've been walking a lot more. And because I don't get up till late, a lot of my walking takes place at night. This is fine. Bath is a nice, and relatively safe town. Rarely do I feel in danger. However, I do worry about the strangers I share the street with. In particular, the small and dark alleyways I take home. In particular: women.
Now, I know I'm not a danger to these women, but I worry that they don't know this. If a woman is walking five paces ahead of me on one of those nights, the only thing going through my head is, "I hope she doesn't think I'm a rapist." I start to think, should I reassure her? Put her at ease. Is there a more awkward and terrifying time to initiate a conversation? I don't have to introduce myself, perhaps just tap her politely on the shoulder and say, "You don't have to worry about me. Seriously, I could have raped you four times by now."
The dynamics of the situation can change dramatically if you're walking with a friend. If you walk with a silent purpose, then the woman will become understandably tense. However, I think she can be put at ease if you speak loudly about ordinary and non-rapist things. If I'm walking alone I'll try to compensate this by pretending to phone a friend, and subtly put my pursuant at ease: "Hey buddy, how's it going? - Oh nothing, just walking with harmless intent...yeah, just returning to my loving and mentally stable family...Indeed, there is no history of violence in my family...no, ha ha! I'm just enjoying the walk, I don't know how I could make this any better; I'm certainly not thinking about raping anyone."
Pursuing someone, I mean walking in even step behind someone leaves you in an odd position of power. A power that can be abused. If you are particularly cruel - I'm not talking about the you-will-go-to-prison sense - you do have the opportunity to turn to your friend and say, "Seriously, shall we just do her now?" You will never see someone run so fast in heels.
The matter of overtaking is a difficult one. Do you? Don't you? There's a real science behind this matter. Judging speeds - She's walking briskly, if I overtake her, I'm going to have to power-walk all the way home. You have to go easy; you don't want to unsettle her by breaking into a run. This worries me when I'm jogging; that people will only hear me about 3 feet before I overtake them, and in their panic, they too will begin running. Now it looks like I'm chasing them. To avoid this, once I get within 20 feet of someone I start taking louder steps and drawing huge, laboured breaths. This allows them time to turn around, see the running gear and iPod, and realise that they are not in mortal danger.
Sometimes when walking, I realise I'm gaining on someone very gradually. It's only so long before you reach an intimate distance, and then cross that threshold from stalker to lead walker. During this time, there is that brief interim where you actually move past them. This is the most awkward phase, and no words shall be spoken. There is a code in walking that says if you are being overtaken, you subtly reduce your speed so as not to prolong the moment. Not everyone observes these rules. These are dangerous people. One time I went for the overtake, and not only did she not slow down, but once she realised what was happening, she actually sped up, denying me my overtake. To say I was mildly outraged would be an understatement. I was in disbelief.
I went again, drawing level with her. She tried to move away, but this time I was ready. We began to move faster and faster, our legs becoming a blur as our march turned to jogging turned to flat out running. We ran like this, side by side for half a mile. People saw us coming, they saw what an unstoppable force we were and wisely crossed the street. Cars stopped in their roads, the drivers staring dumbly at us, having never seen such a phenomenon: two people running in perfect symmetry, locked together by an unseen energy.
Now, I know I'm not a danger to these women, but I worry that they don't know this. If a woman is walking five paces ahead of me on one of those nights, the only thing going through my head is, "I hope she doesn't think I'm a rapist." I start to think, should I reassure her? Put her at ease. Is there a more awkward and terrifying time to initiate a conversation? I don't have to introduce myself, perhaps just tap her politely on the shoulder and say, "You don't have to worry about me. Seriously, I could have raped you four times by now."
The dynamics of the situation can change dramatically if you're walking with a friend. If you walk with a silent purpose, then the woman will become understandably tense. However, I think she can be put at ease if you speak loudly about ordinary and non-rapist things. If I'm walking alone I'll try to compensate this by pretending to phone a friend, and subtly put my pursuant at ease: "Hey buddy, how's it going? - Oh nothing, just walking with harmless intent...yeah, just returning to my loving and mentally stable family...Indeed, there is no history of violence in my family...no, ha ha! I'm just enjoying the walk, I don't know how I could make this any better; I'm certainly not thinking about raping anyone."
Pursuing someone, I mean walking in even step behind someone leaves you in an odd position of power. A power that can be abused. If you are particularly cruel - I'm not talking about the you-will-go-to-prison sense - you do have the opportunity to turn to your friend and say, "Seriously, shall we just do her now?" You will never see someone run so fast in heels.
The matter of overtaking is a difficult one. Do you? Don't you? There's a real science behind this matter. Judging speeds - She's walking briskly, if I overtake her, I'm going to have to power-walk all the way home. You have to go easy; you don't want to unsettle her by breaking into a run. This worries me when I'm jogging; that people will only hear me about 3 feet before I overtake them, and in their panic, they too will begin running. Now it looks like I'm chasing them. To avoid this, once I get within 20 feet of someone I start taking louder steps and drawing huge, laboured breaths. This allows them time to turn around, see the running gear and iPod, and realise that they are not in mortal danger.
Sometimes when walking, I realise I'm gaining on someone very gradually. It's only so long before you reach an intimate distance, and then cross that threshold from stalker to lead walker. During this time, there is that brief interim where you actually move past them. This is the most awkward phase, and no words shall be spoken. There is a code in walking that says if you are being overtaken, you subtly reduce your speed so as not to prolong the moment. Not everyone observes these rules. These are dangerous people. One time I went for the overtake, and not only did she not slow down, but once she realised what was happening, she actually sped up, denying me my overtake. To say I was mildly outraged would be an understatement. I was in disbelief.
I went again, drawing level with her. She tried to move away, but this time I was ready. We began to move faster and faster, our legs becoming a blur as our march turned to jogging turned to flat out running. We ran like this, side by side for half a mile. People saw us coming, they saw what an unstoppable force we were and wisely crossed the street. Cars stopped in their roads, the drivers staring dumbly at us, having never seen such a phenomenon: two people running in perfect symmetry, locked together by an unseen energy.
Tuesday 13 January 2009
Pretty Lady
Sometimes I think I fall in love too easily. I use the word lightly here, but it’s a dangerous mistake, to begin associating the word ‘love’ with a crush. I get worried I’ll be on a date that’s going well, only to declare my love as she discovers my member in the bottom of her popcorn. Not just lying there. It’s not dismembered. How terrifying would that be? I love you! Have my willy!
The reason I bring this up is because the other night I was served by a very pretty barmaid; she had hair and teeth and everything. This was a momentous event, very rarely am I attracted to someone so strongly. She wasn’t just pretty. There was an intelligence behind those eyes. She looked like she read. I felt like I could ask her if she had read Ulysses, and she would say, “Which edition?” And we would throw our heads back laughing. On the downside she had small boobs.
Now, I know I’ve broken an unwritten rule here, and opened wide the ‘Does Size Matter?’ debate. I know some of you are hating me right now. So I’ll tell you my stance on it. Does it matter? Well, not in real terms. If I’m developing an attraction for someone and it comes to the crunch (ahem), then a lack of boobage isn’t going to veto my decision. However, I suppose the shallow truth of it is that I do notice, and the details are noted. I always tend to balance this out with the positive that if we grew old together, there is going to limited to nil droopage. They’re still going to be fastened to her like newly sewn buttons on a teddy bear.
So how to approach the situation? You may have guessed I didn’t do anything about it that night. You see, I’ve never chatted anyone up before, and how do you go about doing it to someone who’s working? Something like this?
“Barmaid!” I snap my fingers.
“Yes?”
“Clean this table immediately.”
“Pardon?”
“I want to have sex with you.”
Hmm, perhaps a bit full on. What if I were to make a solo appearance, and sit in moody and deep thought until she approaches:
“What’s the matter?” She asks.
“I’m just trying to figure the best way to ask you out.”
She smiles, but her attention becomes distracted, “Are you bleeding?”
“Yes, I carved your face in my arm. Do you like it? I love you!”
Ok, ok. I’m not as creepy as I’m making out to be (breathes deeply), and I know I don’t love the barmaid, but I got a good vibe from her. It’s not about sex either, not with this one. I’ll tell you when it was about sex, in a club, earlier in the week. Remember the horrifically drunk night?
I was getting a drink when two bleach blonde bombshells sidled up to the bar. They looked unreal, otherworldly, like Californian goddesses. Their makeup and dress suggested they were used to being filmed. Interestingly, they were also covered in cool tattoos, and what Mitch Hedberg would call ‘Cranium Accessories’. It struck me that they would come as a pair, so if I could pull one, I’d be in for an experimental night. Tee bee aych, this wasn’t even about sex, it was about a personal victory, and impressing my housemates, “You got with them?”
My imagination was already hours ahead, thinking how I would surreptitiously take a photo to prove that I had achieved the impossible. This reminds me of a classic episode of Frasier when our eponymous hero does the very same after a steamy night with the hottie from his high school. The closest I got was thinking of saying, “Nice tattoos…”
The reason I bring this up is because the other night I was served by a very pretty barmaid; she had hair and teeth and everything. This was a momentous event, very rarely am I attracted to someone so strongly. She wasn’t just pretty. There was an intelligence behind those eyes. She looked like she read. I felt like I could ask her if she had read Ulysses, and she would say, “Which edition?” And we would throw our heads back laughing. On the downside she had small boobs.
Now, I know I’ve broken an unwritten rule here, and opened wide the ‘Does Size Matter?’ debate. I know some of you are hating me right now. So I’ll tell you my stance on it. Does it matter? Well, not in real terms. If I’m developing an attraction for someone and it comes to the crunch (ahem), then a lack of boobage isn’t going to veto my decision. However, I suppose the shallow truth of it is that I do notice, and the details are noted. I always tend to balance this out with the positive that if we grew old together, there is going to limited to nil droopage. They’re still going to be fastened to her like newly sewn buttons on a teddy bear.
So how to approach the situation? You may have guessed I didn’t do anything about it that night. You see, I’ve never chatted anyone up before, and how do you go about doing it to someone who’s working? Something like this?
“Barmaid!” I snap my fingers.
“Yes?”
“Clean this table immediately.”
“Pardon?”
“I want to have sex with you.”
Hmm, perhaps a bit full on. What if I were to make a solo appearance, and sit in moody and deep thought until she approaches:
“What’s the matter?” She asks.
“I’m just trying to figure the best way to ask you out.”
She smiles, but her attention becomes distracted, “Are you bleeding?”
“Yes, I carved your face in my arm. Do you like it? I love you!”
Ok, ok. I’m not as creepy as I’m making out to be (breathes deeply), and I know I don’t love the barmaid, but I got a good vibe from her. It’s not about sex either, not with this one. I’ll tell you when it was about sex, in a club, earlier in the week. Remember the horrifically drunk night?
I was getting a drink when two bleach blonde bombshells sidled up to the bar. They looked unreal, otherworldly, like Californian goddesses. Their makeup and dress suggested they were used to being filmed. Interestingly, they were also covered in cool tattoos, and what Mitch Hedberg would call ‘Cranium Accessories’. It struck me that they would come as a pair, so if I could pull one, I’d be in for an experimental night. Tee bee aych, this wasn’t even about sex, it was about a personal victory, and impressing my housemates, “You got with them?”
My imagination was already hours ahead, thinking how I would surreptitiously take a photo to prove that I had achieved the impossible. This reminds me of a classic episode of Frasier when our eponymous hero does the very same after a steamy night with the hottie from his high school. The closest I got was thinking of saying, “Nice tattoos…”
Monday 12 January 2009
Bell 2: Multitasking
When it comes to speaking on the phone, I'm still liable to panic, as I'm completely inept at achieving anything whilst holding a phone to my face. It brings us back to that idea that women can multitask and men can't. It's feminist propaganda like this and sentences like, 'women are better drivers than men,' 'women deserve equal pay for the same work' and 'you can only beat your wife with a wooden pole and not a metal one' that makes me want to push small children over.
However, when it comes to doing stuff and talking on the phone, I think women may have won this one. I could call my ex (that's right, ladies ;) at any time of the day and receive a monologue of her precise movements: "Yeah, I'm just paying now...ooh, I've just dropped the money, silly me...she's just given me forty-three pence in exchange for my ten pound Stirling." Me? I don't answer the phone if I'm in a cue.
Women are prepared to answer a call at any given occasion. They could be cooking a roast, cleaning an expensive vase, or indeed any other stereotypical-about-the-house activity. One time I phoned my partner (I can call her that) and everything seemed to be normal, except for what sounded like these large blasts of air.
"What're those noises?" I asked.
"A fire extinguisher, my curtains are on fire."
If I receive a call whilst I'm about the house, I have to tie my legs down so that I'm not distracted by the thought of walking. Ladies hate it when you're distracted. And it doesn't matter that they can't see you, they'll know.
I think one of the few times that a man will answer a phone when a woman definitely won't is when he's using the toilet. Number one, number two; it doesn't matter. If there's one thing Man can do whilst maintaining a conversation it's answering that separate call to nature. How else do you explain urinals? It's not about efficiency, it's about socialising; bonding.
The one problem with this is that you can never let a woman know that you're attending to business whilst speaking to her. Thankfully, mobiles aren't at the megaphone level of audio pickup, so if you stick to the side of the bowl, you're pretty safe, and if it's a number two, just avoid groaning and other sharp outtakes of breath.
OK, so you're finished, and without arousing too much suspicion. Do you flush? Of course you want to flush, every fibre of your potty-trained hand is being drawn towards that paddle shaped arm. One technique is to edge toward the door, whilst simultaneously leaning towards the flusher. You press, turn, slam the door behind you and charge down the hallway. It's hopeful, but never in the history of Man (unless you're Usain Bolt or a toilet ninja) has this worked. Even if you manage to escape the tidal wave of decibels, you're still going to have to explain why you're suddenly out of breath.
However, when it comes to doing stuff and talking on the phone, I think women may have won this one. I could call my ex (that's right, ladies ;) at any time of the day and receive a monologue of her precise movements: "Yeah, I'm just paying now...ooh, I've just dropped the money, silly me...she's just given me forty-three pence in exchange for my ten pound Stirling." Me? I don't answer the phone if I'm in a cue.
Women are prepared to answer a call at any given occasion. They could be cooking a roast, cleaning an expensive vase, or indeed any other stereotypical-about-the-house activity. One time I phoned my partner (I can call her that) and everything seemed to be normal, except for what sounded like these large blasts of air.
"What're those noises?" I asked.
"A fire extinguisher, my curtains are on fire."
If I receive a call whilst I'm about the house, I have to tie my legs down so that I'm not distracted by the thought of walking. Ladies hate it when you're distracted. And it doesn't matter that they can't see you, they'll know.
I think one of the few times that a man will answer a phone when a woman definitely won't is when he's using the toilet. Number one, number two; it doesn't matter. If there's one thing Man can do whilst maintaining a conversation it's answering that separate call to nature. How else do you explain urinals? It's not about efficiency, it's about socialising; bonding.
The one problem with this is that you can never let a woman know that you're attending to business whilst speaking to her. Thankfully, mobiles aren't at the megaphone level of audio pickup, so if you stick to the side of the bowl, you're pretty safe, and if it's a number two, just avoid groaning and other sharp outtakes of breath.
OK, so you're finished, and without arousing too much suspicion. Do you flush? Of course you want to flush, every fibre of your potty-trained hand is being drawn towards that paddle shaped arm. One technique is to edge toward the door, whilst simultaneously leaning towards the flusher. You press, turn, slam the door behind you and charge down the hallway. It's hopeful, but never in the history of Man (unless you're Usain Bolt or a toilet ninja) has this worked. Even if you manage to escape the tidal wave of decibels, you're still going to have to explain why you're suddenly out of breath.
Saturday 10 January 2009
Footer
The blog is now decorated with a magic footer by my good friend Craig Foley. See bottom of web-page. If you look close enough you can see he's put a bit of himself in it. I'm currently expecting a cool header to join this page soon by another artist friend of mine, Irisz Heathershaw. Irisz and I worked on a little two-page comic spread last year, as seen here:
Bell
When my phone rings, my instant reaction is to panic. This panic becomes heightened if I’m sat down and the phone is lodged deep into my jeans pocket. The ring of a phone to me sounds more like a countdown, the everyday equivalent of a bomb going off. The only consequence is that I miss the call, and then have to call that person back. Well, when I say it so logically, what the hell am I worrying about? This is all quickly forgotten when I hear those alarm bells.
Sometimes the phone will go off, and you can hear it, but you’re not quite sure where it is. At first the search is casual, it’ll turn up, you’re thinking. Soon pillows and magazines are being thrown aside, sofa-cushions pulled out, and bookshelves overturned. By the time the device is found, you’d be forgiven for thinking I had been burgled.
Things get worse if the phone is in another room. You’re watching TV when you hear a familiar tinkle. So distant you’re not sure you even heard it. You pause Sky+ (which comes from as little as £16.50 a month, and they install it for free) and prick your ears. Yep, there it is. The insistent bell, making me react like I’m expecting a call from my wife’s kidnappers. Who knows how long it’s been ringing? There are no other options; I’m going to have to run. I bound and leap through the house like a gazelle, taking the stairs three at a time. I trip and fall, receiving a bruise that’s going to bother me for a week, but for now barely registers – I’m already on my feet again, my legs devouring the ground beneath me, silently counting the amount of rings: 16! No one calls longer than 16! I reach for the phone, and snap it to my ear, hoping to save precious milliseconds.
“Hello! Hello?”
“Hi there, sir. This is T-Mobile, would you like to take part in our survey?”
Sometimes the phone will go off, and you can hear it, but you’re not quite sure where it is. At first the search is casual, it’ll turn up, you’re thinking. Soon pillows and magazines are being thrown aside, sofa-cushions pulled out, and bookshelves overturned. By the time the device is found, you’d be forgiven for thinking I had been burgled.
Things get worse if the phone is in another room. You’re watching TV when you hear a familiar tinkle. So distant you’re not sure you even heard it. You pause Sky+ (which comes from as little as £16.50 a month, and they install it for free) and prick your ears. Yep, there it is. The insistent bell, making me react like I’m expecting a call from my wife’s kidnappers. Who knows how long it’s been ringing? There are no other options; I’m going to have to run. I bound and leap through the house like a gazelle, taking the stairs three at a time. I trip and fall, receiving a bruise that’s going to bother me for a week, but for now barely registers – I’m already on my feet again, my legs devouring the ground beneath me, silently counting the amount of rings: 16! No one calls longer than 16! I reach for the phone, and snap it to my ear, hoping to save precious milliseconds.
“Hello! Hello?”
“Hi there, sir. This is T-Mobile, would you like to take part in our survey?”
Thursday 8 January 2009
Good Night, Bad Morning
Last night is the most horrifically drunk I have ever been.
If you're curious, I drank:
1 pint of Fosters
2 double Sailor Jerrys and coke
4 double Jägermeisters and coke
1 double JD and coke
Is this a lot? I don't know, but it was enough for me. I think it was the JD that tipped me over the precipice from happy drunk to dangerously ill drunk. I think I had even decided I had finished on the last Jägermeister, but was handed the JD by a destructive housemate (you know who you are) and did what any man would do with a fresh drink.
Sorry to spoil the content but I am aware of my limited readership, so if vivid descriptions on the negative effects of alcohol consumption bother you, then stop reading this post now.
It wasn't until we got home that I realised how drunk and suddenly nauseous I was. I couldn't focus my eyes on anything. The classic symptons, really. Sleeping was out of the question. I went straight for the bathroom, and after a few heaves I produced a prodigious and probably poisonous flow. I looked on the evidence with admiration. My eyes, blurred with loose tears could only discern the colour. Black, laced with traces of blood. Incredible. I wanted to show my housemates, hoping to impress them, but there must have been one brain cell with the light still on that said they probably wouldn't appreciate this kind of sharing. If only that brain cell had reminded me I have a camera-phone. I decided that I would have a bath, perhaps this would sober me up? Nope, now I was wet and drunk.
Then I thought perhaps a cigarette would be sobering? Where did this come from? I don't smoke, but there seemed to be a strange drunken logic that this would help. I don't have cigarettes, and neither do my housemates, so stage two of sobering was foiled.
I decided that drinking water could probably only help, which I did inbetween vomitting. A lot of the night consisted of me trying to make a headrest out of the toilet seat. But it was no use, I didn't seem to be getting anymore sober. Everytime I returned to the lounge to watch more TV my focus was clearly as bad as it was before. I just wanted to feel better, I just wanted to stop being drunk. By 4am, I was this close - - to calling a paramedic and getting put on a drip. I had enough money for a taxi home. I had the necessary digits typed into my phone when my housemate Sean appeared, biceps gleaming, legs striking the floor like a stallion. He gathered me into his arms and tenderly kissed my forehead, giving me the strength to carry on.
OK, this last bit is an exageration. What actually happened is I told Sean I was probably going to call a paramedic, and he said, "Nah, you just need to Man-It." Although this is a less romantic image, I found a similar strength from it, and by 5am, was this possible? I was beginning to feel not so horrifically drunk. Sure, the nausea was still there. And I was becoming quite accustomed to sending my fingers to the back of my throat to feel that fleeting relief post-vomit. It was mostly water by this stage, but somehow my body was able to find chunks from deep recesses, pockets long forgotten. Chunks that probably weren't food at all.
I'm not sure what time I fell into my bed, semi-clothed. But needless to say, I missed my 9am seminar. I think there's a lesson to be learned from this, I'm not sure what though. I have to go now, I think it's time to start drinking again.
If you're curious, I drank:
1 pint of Fosters
2 double Sailor Jerrys and coke
4 double Jägermeisters and coke
1 double JD and coke
Is this a lot? I don't know, but it was enough for me. I think it was the JD that tipped me over the precipice from happy drunk to dangerously ill drunk. I think I had even decided I had finished on the last Jägermeister, but was handed the JD by a destructive housemate (you know who you are) and did what any man would do with a fresh drink.
Sorry to spoil the content but I am aware of my limited readership, so if vivid descriptions on the negative effects of alcohol consumption bother you, then stop reading this post now.
It wasn't until we got home that I realised how drunk and suddenly nauseous I was. I couldn't focus my eyes on anything. The classic symptons, really. Sleeping was out of the question. I went straight for the bathroom, and after a few heaves I produced a prodigious and probably poisonous flow. I looked on the evidence with admiration. My eyes, blurred with loose tears could only discern the colour. Black, laced with traces of blood. Incredible. I wanted to show my housemates, hoping to impress them, but there must have been one brain cell with the light still on that said they probably wouldn't appreciate this kind of sharing. If only that brain cell had reminded me I have a camera-phone. I decided that I would have a bath, perhaps this would sober me up? Nope, now I was wet and drunk.
Then I thought perhaps a cigarette would be sobering? Where did this come from? I don't smoke, but there seemed to be a strange drunken logic that this would help. I don't have cigarettes, and neither do my housemates, so stage two of sobering was foiled.
I decided that drinking water could probably only help, which I did inbetween vomitting. A lot of the night consisted of me trying to make a headrest out of the toilet seat. But it was no use, I didn't seem to be getting anymore sober. Everytime I returned to the lounge to watch more TV my focus was clearly as bad as it was before. I just wanted to feel better, I just wanted to stop being drunk. By 4am, I was this close - - to calling a paramedic and getting put on a drip. I had enough money for a taxi home. I had the necessary digits typed into my phone when my housemate Sean appeared, biceps gleaming, legs striking the floor like a stallion. He gathered me into his arms and tenderly kissed my forehead, giving me the strength to carry on.
OK, this last bit is an exageration. What actually happened is I told Sean I was probably going to call a paramedic, and he said, "Nah, you just need to Man-It." Although this is a less romantic image, I found a similar strength from it, and by 5am, was this possible? I was beginning to feel not so horrifically drunk. Sure, the nausea was still there. And I was becoming quite accustomed to sending my fingers to the back of my throat to feel that fleeting relief post-vomit. It was mostly water by this stage, but somehow my body was able to find chunks from deep recesses, pockets long forgotten. Chunks that probably weren't food at all.
I'm not sure what time I fell into my bed, semi-clothed. But needless to say, I missed my 9am seminar. I think there's a lesson to be learned from this, I'm not sure what though. I have to go now, I think it's time to start drinking again.
Wednesday 7 January 2009
Grown Apart
I've recently been spreading my creative seed across the internet, wondering where it might stick. Result: My first story 'published' - http://youreadonline.com/short%20stories/humour/grown%20apart.htm
Check it out if you have the time, and if not, fuck off. (Ironic face)
Check it out if you have the time, and if not, fuck off. (Ironic face)
Tuesday 6 January 2009
Little Cousin
Christmas as usual provided the only excuse last year for my family to see each other in small and inoffensive doses. It is in these moments where you share the kind of conversation that no one enjoys and your uncles used to remark on how tall you'd gotten, and you were forbidden to remark on how fat they'd got.
At the time I swore I'd never pass such dull comments once I reached adulthood. This turned out to be easier said than done. Now that uncles and aunties are starting their first and second families, there is a slight amazement that is hard to contain when you see the phenomenal rate of growth. I feel the words come tumbling out of my mouth in a knee-jerk reaction, "Ooh, look how you've grown!" And then the instant shame as the young cousin bows his head in a familiar embarrassment, and swears silently to himself that he will not propagate such comments once he comes of age.
This last Christmas gone an uncle came over with a couple of his kids, one of them from his first marriage, whose three years older than me, and has changed very little since I last saw him (besides horizontally) and his younger son, Sam, from his new marriage.
When I came downstairs I was greeted by the unfamiliar sight of a man with the head of a child, a Man-Child if you will. "Is that Sam?" I said. He turned to me with a glazed stare found only in young kids and the mentally devoid and barked a reply that seemed to surprise even him, as if his voice box had a will of its own, and was thrall to no one. I was so shocked I forgot to remark on his height, which was rivalling mine at six feet.
I was beginning to think, 'Wow, Sam's a lot older than I remember. I swear he was a toddler the last time I saw him.' In truth, I would have been less surprised if Sam came in on all fours. "So," my mother asked, "you looking forward to senior school?" Senior school! Sam was only ten!?
What fascinated me most was the premature fur that was gracing his top lip. "If that grows anymore you're going to have to start shaving," I laughed.
"I shaved this morning," he croaked, and took a swift swig from a hip flask that appeared from nowhere and returned there. I imagine it contained hard liquor laced with chocolate milk.
At this point my uncle noticed the study which had been converted into my younger brother's weight room. My brother is sixteen and currently benching 50kg. Sam thought it was a dumbbell. He began pumping with vigour - no one could believe it, 23, 24, 25. Who knows how long he would have gone on for before he became distracted by the sound of jangling keys, dropping the bar on my uncle's foot - crushing two bones - and pursuing the noise.
"How are you going to get home?" asked my concerned mother.
"It's alright, Sam drove us here."
At the time I swore I'd never pass such dull comments once I reached adulthood. This turned out to be easier said than done. Now that uncles and aunties are starting their first and second families, there is a slight amazement that is hard to contain when you see the phenomenal rate of growth. I feel the words come tumbling out of my mouth in a knee-jerk reaction, "Ooh, look how you've grown!" And then the instant shame as the young cousin bows his head in a familiar embarrassment, and swears silently to himself that he will not propagate such comments once he comes of age.
This last Christmas gone an uncle came over with a couple of his kids, one of them from his first marriage, whose three years older than me, and has changed very little since I last saw him (besides horizontally) and his younger son, Sam, from his new marriage.
When I came downstairs I was greeted by the unfamiliar sight of a man with the head of a child, a Man-Child if you will. "Is that Sam?" I said. He turned to me with a glazed stare found only in young kids and the mentally devoid and barked a reply that seemed to surprise even him, as if his voice box had a will of its own, and was thrall to no one. I was so shocked I forgot to remark on his height, which was rivalling mine at six feet.
I was beginning to think, 'Wow, Sam's a lot older than I remember. I swear he was a toddler the last time I saw him.' In truth, I would have been less surprised if Sam came in on all fours. "So," my mother asked, "you looking forward to senior school?" Senior school! Sam was only ten!?
What fascinated me most was the premature fur that was gracing his top lip. "If that grows anymore you're going to have to start shaving," I laughed.
"I shaved this morning," he croaked, and took a swift swig from a hip flask that appeared from nowhere and returned there. I imagine it contained hard liquor laced with chocolate milk.
At this point my uncle noticed the study which had been converted into my younger brother's weight room. My brother is sixteen and currently benching 50kg. Sam thought it was a dumbbell. He began pumping with vigour - no one could believe it, 23, 24, 25. Who knows how long he would have gone on for before he became distracted by the sound of jangling keys, dropping the bar on my uncle's foot - crushing two bones - and pursuing the noise.
"How are you going to get home?" asked my concerned mother.
"It's alright, Sam drove us here."
Monday 5 January 2009
Moi
I'm guessing I should introduce myself, this being my first post. My name is Khyan, which is probably not your name, because it's different, and unusual. There's a story there, and it has something to do with my mother's obsession with Egyptology. Ask her and she'll tell you all about it.
It's a burden as much as it is a gift. People find my name refreshing and often tell me that they'll name their spawn likewise, I nod and act flattered. I suppose it's better than another Liam out there. However, people often have difficulty pronouncing my name; there's been a veritable smorgasbord over the years, Kee-un, Kai-un, Wanker. OK, not a smorgasbord, but at least as diverse as Uncle Ben's curry sauces. If you're trying to guess the right answer, it's Kai-ann.
Anyways, I don't want to get too bogged down in small talk, so over the coming months I hope to bombard you with big talk, news and observations. Hang low.
It's a burden as much as it is a gift. People find my name refreshing and often tell me that they'll name their spawn likewise, I nod and act flattered. I suppose it's better than another Liam out there. However, people often have difficulty pronouncing my name; there's been a veritable smorgasbord over the years, Kee-un, Kai-un, Wanker. OK, not a smorgasbord, but at least as diverse as Uncle Ben's curry sauces. If you're trying to guess the right answer, it's Kai-ann.
Anyways, I don't want to get too bogged down in small talk, so over the coming months I hope to bombard you with big talk, news and observations. Hang low.
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